Salao
by Andra-ggfan
Summary: Literati one-shot.


**A/N: For wartram (without whom this story would have never been written), LukeAndLorelai-Brucas-Fan (for telling me it doesn't suck) and NotThereNeverAround (for repeatedly telling me it doesn't suck and that I should post it. I blame you for this). Suffice to say I have nothing but good words for these three and for all of you who've been reading my stories for so very long and still put up with my haphazard updating style. Every single one of you is great. **

* * *

**Salao**

He opens the door and his heart skips a beat when he sees her standing on the other side, hands clutching a purse strap, teeth biting her lip, small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She doesn't talk. He doesn't either.

She presses her lips to his, softly, chastely. Once. Twice. She lets them linger the third time. He cups her face in his left hand.

"I've missed you." She whispers against his mouth, closing her eyes and tilting her head down.

And then her shirt's on the floor and her hands are working his belt.

* * *

"Seattle, huh?" Rory smiles as she lies across the bed, legs over his, one knee bent. He takes a drag from a cigarette, blowing the smoke out in little circles.

"I like the weather."

"_You_ would." She laughs softly, staring at the ceiling.

"Where are you supposed to be?" He puts his free hand on her leg, moving his fingers slowly.

"Nowhere." She shrugs, looking at him again.

"What's that mean?"

"Flying to Iraq tomorrow."

"And you couldn't find a better connection? Man, it's true what they say, flying does suck these days."

"Came to say goodbye." She shrugs again, pushing herself up on her elbows.

"I thought you were going to quit flying to dangerous places."

"Last time."

"Yeah, you said that in New Orleans too." He smiles, lighting another cigarette. New Orleans. Two blissful months.

The last ten years of their lives were scattered with days and weeks and months of bliss.

"I think I mean it this time." She muses and he doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself. She doesn't either. "This one was too good to give up. They caught this guy who went rogue a while back and I get to interview him."

"Don't get shot again." He tightens his grip on her knee.

"Don't be so romantic, I can't take it. And anyway, it was a graze."

"You dismiss getting shot, but stub your toe and you whine for ages." He smirks, kissing the soft skin of her leg.

"Do you want me to call?"

"…I don't know." He looks out the window. Rain is falling slowly, lazily almost. He blows the smoke out of his lungs. "Last time…"

"I know what we said last time." She snaps, pulling her leg away from him before standing up. "I don't want to start this again, Jess." She follows a water drop with her eyes as it slides down the window. "I want… I don't know what I want." She turns to face him again. "I wanted to say goodbye in case something does happen. Fuck that. I wanted to see you." She admits and he walks to her, putting his hand on the back of her neck. She dips her forehead. He kisses it. "And then this and us and god, can't we keep our clothes on for a change? It would be so much easier." The fight's gone out of her voice. It's somewhere between a whisper and a plea. "Can't you not make me feel this way?"

He kisses her forehead again.

"I want you to call. I want to see you. I miss you like hell, you know I do." He rests his forehead against hers as he tells her this. "But…"

They let the word hang for a while. She's willing to swear the tear falling on her cheek is tracing the same pattern the water drop had.

"I wasn't planning on calling like …well, this." She waves her hands to highlight her body, covered in only his shirt. "Today either. I was going to knock and then see if you wanted to go to a bookstore to stock up for my flight. Have a beer or two. I even booked a hotel for tonight." She sighs. "Trust me, I know. We go together…"

"Like rama lama lama?" He interrupts and she smiles.

"We're more dip di-dip di-dip."

"Doesn't everyone like to think that?"

"Probably."

He lifts his hand to cup her cheek. She traces the tattoo on his forearm with her fingers. New York.

"Call. We'll talk about books." He kisses the trace of the tear away. She catches his upper lip between hers briefly.

"So how long have you been here?" She changes the subject, sitting in the armchair next to the window. He sits on the edge of the bed after bringing his cigarettes and ashtray nearer.

"About three months."

"Time to move on then." She laughs and there's a hint of bitterness in it. It had been there since Cincinnati. He hates himself for it. "Where to?"

"I'm thinking of leaving the country, I can't take another election season."

"That's not for another couple of years."

"Same difference." He smirks, picking up another cigarette, the one before nothing but a neat stack of ashes. "It'll give me time to get used to ex-pat life."

"Where to?"

"Don't know. South America maybe."

"You could try Cuba."

"I'm not that into Hemingway." He smiles. She laughs.

"Tell that to someone else."

"And they've yet to change that fucking no spending money rule."

"I'm sure there are ways to circumvent that."

"Are you trying to imply I'd ever do anything less than legal?"

"Perish the thought."

He flicks the ash away and looks at her again. "Do you want some coffee or something?"

"Not coffee." She shakes her head. She was passing through Phoenix. He made her coffee. They were together for six months. "I could use some alcohol, there's not a lot of quality drinking in war zones."

"I can do that." He nods and stands up. The cigarette is balanced in the corner of his mouth. Glasses, ice, vodka, tonic. He hands her one. "Just don't accuse me of trying to get you drunk later."

"We already had sex, there's not a lot more damage to do."

"If only that was the only damage." He says and she nods in agreement.

"I've been thinking a lot about Vegas lately." She confesses.

"That was … a while ago."

"You think if the office hadn't been closed and we could have gotten a marriage license…?" She lets the sentence hang. "Who knew movies lied that much, right?"

"Would we have tried harder?" He finishes it. "I don't think we could have. Can."

"Maybe if we…" She closes her eyes. "I'm sorry, it was stupid to say in the first place."

"You can tell me anything." She can. He can too. They're each other's best confidant, keepers of secrets no one else knows.

After Salt Lake City, they'd called each other to talk about how much they were hurting. Like some fucking goddamn rom-com.

"I hate that I can't be with you when I love you this much." She whispers. The same feeling over and over again all over the country. He leans forward and caresses her knee. She lets herself cry. "It's not fair."

He can't stay. She can't run.

Dante's hell has nothing on theirs.

Most hells have nothing on theirs.

"Let's go back to Vegas. It would take too long to drive, but we can fly. We'll be there way before midnight this time." He kneels in front of her, grasping her face in his hands. "We'll make it."

"We won't. To Vegas yes but not…" She shakes her head, trying to shake his hands off. "We can't make it, Jess. We're running out of places to try."

"We have plenty of places."

"…But I only want one. Any one."

Long silence.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I. I wish we could do it."

She wants to get married, he's iffy about it, but, as long as they do it somewhere quick and without a lot of people, he's fine. She wants at least a couple of kids because growing up she'd always wished for a sibling to tell her secrets to in the middle of the night when Lane wasn't there, he's sure he'd be happier without any because there is nothing good in him to give but she would hate herself for raising them on the road. She wants a white picket fence and he prefers apartments. She's told him she's fine not getting married and he's told her he's fine with a big white wedding in the town square. She's agreed to homeschool and let their child run wild, he's promised her they'll live maybe not in Stars Hollow but Hartford sounds fine and send their kids to private school. She could get used to apartments and he could buy a lawnmower and sit on the porch in the evenings, smoking and reading.

She has run away with him too many times. He has stayed with her too many times.

She slides down to the floor in front of him and kisses him.

Words have become platitudes. Maybe in Syracuse.

Maybe Dallas.

* * *

She hooks her bra behind her back, still sitting on the bed. He lights another cigarette. She's the reason he always has a pack in the house, no matter how long it's been since he's quit.

"Don't date that fucking photographer." He asks her and she stares at him.

"Michael?"

"He likes you. I remember the way he looked at you at your Christmas party."

Chicago. They'd had sex in the elevator of the hotel.

"He's married now." She hugs her legs to her chest. "Been for a couple of years."

"He's still an asshole." He mumbles grumpily and she smiles.

"He's a nice guy. His wife's pregnant." She bites her lip.

He doesn't answer.

She moves closer and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry I can't wait any longer for us. If I could shut up this voice in my head that tells me I need to do this now before I run out of time, I would." The same rational voice that tells her that she is better off without him, even if not necessarily happier.

"Your mom had a kid at forty two."

"And she was on bed rest for months."

"I'd bring you ice cream." He smiles, kissing her. "You should be with someone who can give you everything you want." Someone who won't be miserable giving her what she wants.

"So should you." Someone who won't love him so much more than she loves herself that she won't care about being miserable.

"How about lots of someones?" He brushes her hair away from her face, smirking.

"Don't dedicate them books." She kisses his forehead.

"Promise."

Out of all the promises he's made her, it's the only one he's kept.

"Maybe I'll come see you in New York." He grabs another cigarette and breaths in, even if it's not lit. He's lost the lighter again. "Unless you move to Jersey. There's only so much I can take."

"I'll try not to."

"Just be happy." He slides closer, hugging her so very tightly that maybe his arms will fuse together and she won't go away again. He kisses her temple again and again. She kisses his shoulder.

Be happy. The one thing they can't be together for too long.

In ten years, they have probably kissed every inch of each other's body. He's claimed the tip of her hip bone as his birthday present six years earlier. She's claimed the small spot her lips reach when she's lying in the crook of his arm in return.

"I don't think I will ever stop loving you." She echoes his thoughts.

"I hope you do." He echoes hers.

They stay in each other's arms for a while.

She pulls back.

He lights his cigarette. The lighter was on the floor.

"I should go soon. I want to grab some coffee at the airport before my flight." If she stays longer, they'll end up believing again that they can do it.

She stands up and puts on her jeans.

"Do you need a ride?"

"I'll take a cab."

He gave her a ride in Denver. He wound up on the flight with her.

He watches her lace up her shoes, smoking and wishing he'd poured himself more vodka. She grabs his t-shirt, smiling playfully as she puts it on.

"It's almost tradition by now."

"How many do you have?"

"A few." When the longing gets too much, she put one on and holds the others and clings to memories of his scent. He leafs through books she's left behind. He's out of margins to fill.

She picks up her purse and opens it, taking a book and pack of cigarettes out. "Here." She throws them on the bed. "You always run out, figured I'd save you the trip."

He takes the pack of Lucky Strikes and puts it under the other one. There's a picture of diseased lungs on it.

"Have I reminded you yet not to get shot?" He knows he has. She nods.

"I didn't plan it last time."

"If you do it again, I swear I'll get myself in a coma so you can see how bad it is to be at the bedside instead of in the bed."

"Try not to die just to spite me." She smiles. She's out of excuses to stay. She leans down and gives him one more kiss.

"I love you." He tells her.

"I love you too."

She slings her bag over her shoulder and walks to the door. Hand on the handle, she turns around and looks at him. "Hey, Jess…?"

"Yes?" His thumbnail is digging in his ring finger as the two between them hold his cigarette.

"Someday…when this stops hurting? Write us a story. One with a happy ending. We're screwed up enough to fit marvelously in your genre."

"Well, I've done Henry Miller's other two things with you…" He trails off and she laughs.

"Bye, Jess."

"Goodbye."

She out the door.

He stands up.

His hand grips the handle.

Instead of opening the door, he rests his head against it.

He did it in Atlanta. It lasted three weeks.

Eighteen chances are too many.


End file.
